by Lilly Gayle
His gaze slid to her still hands as they rested on her abdomen. Tiny scars dotted her fingers, but her skin was neither dry nor chapped, and her nails were clean and neatly trimmed. They did not look like the hands of a woman who labored, and although she was not wearing a ring, that did not mean she was not a widow as the nun claimed.
So how did a gently reared widow, heavy with child, end up traveling in a rundown coach with a nun?
“Does she have family? What of her husband’s people?” Though it was none of his business, he would hate it if the woman lost everything she owned because he and Quentin panicked and failed to retrieve her luggage. If she had a father or family willing to take her in, then perhaps the loss of her possessions would not burden her too greatly.
Sister Mary Daphne shook her head. “It is a complicated tale and not mine to tell, but rest assured, I will see her safely delivered of this child.”
“And after the babe is born?” He avoided the piercing eyes he felt staring at him from across the coach. Quentin was probably wondering why he cared about the young widow when he was dealing with his own difficulties. But a woman needed a man’s protection, and there did not seem to be anyone looking after this one.
The nun shrugged. “If she lives, I will see to her care.”
“I can take care of myself and my baby.” The young woman’s voice was strong and determined despite its low pitch. “My father will assist us.”
Jack looked down, meeting her gaze. She flushed, seemingly aware of the incongruity of her statement. If her father cared so damn much, then why was she going to Shrivenham to stay with the nun’s sister?
The remainder of their short journey was uneventful, the widow’s occasional panting breaths the only sound to break the silence before they arrived at Sheep’s Crossing. Outside the small stone church and ivy-covered vicarage, a herd of sheep lazily grazed.
“Thank you for your assistance,” the nun said as Jack climbed down from the carriage. The young woman in his arms moaned and stirred but barely opened her eyes.
“It was most kind of you,” the sister added, reaching for the woman as though to take her from Jack’s arms.
He shifted her weight, holding the widow more firmly against his chest. “I have her. You clear a path through the sheep and warn the parish priest of our arrival.”
The nun’s dark eyes were as cold as flints, her expression sour. Then she turned on her heels and walked away, her worn brown habit rustling over the grass and frightening the sheep. Bleating and baaing, they scurried away.
Quentin came up beside Jack and nodded toward the departing sister. “That is one cold fish.”
“She’s a nun.” Unlike Quentin, Jack had not been raised in the Church of England. He had never actually spoken to an Anglican nun—or any nun for that matter. After moving to America, he and his mother had attended an Episcopal church. Still, he did not imagine nuns were the warm or fun-loving sort. Poverty tended to make a woman bitter. His own mother had certainly grown bitter after her husband forced her into exile.
Before they reached the cottage door, it opened and the vicar stepped out. Sister Mary Daphne spoke quickly and then turned, rushing back down the stone walkway toward her charge and the man who carried her. “Quickly now! Bring her inside.”
When they reached the door, the vicar welcomed them before turning toward the nun. “Go fetch my niece.”
Sister Mary Daphne gave Jack a chilling glance before rushing off to do the vicar’s bidding.
“I am Reverend Harrison,” the aging minister said.
Jack nodded. “Captain Jack—uh, Jack Norton, Lord Ardmore. The young lady in my arms is a widow. Her name is Abby or Abigail. I do not know her surname.”
The vicar stretched his weathered face into a grim smile. “Nor do I. The good sister would only tell me her given name.”
Odd. Why address her by her Christian name? Did she not know the widow’s family name?
Quentin stepped forward and took the vicar’s hand. “Quentin Stanley, fifth son of Lord Willoughby.”
Quent did not normally flaunt his family’s title. For the most part, he wanted to pave his own way in the world, but Jack knew there were times when he used his family’s influence. But why did he think they needed it now?
“I have made the earl’s acquaintance a time or two,” the vicar said as he led Jack and Quentin inside. He closed the front door and crossed the small living room to a closed door on the other side. “Let’s put the young lady in here where she will be comfortable.”
He opened the door and stepped back. Jack carried her inside and reluctantly placed his slight burden on a wrought iron bed. Blood stained his waistcoat and the tops of his trousers, but at least the woman was still breathing. With a sigh of relief, he straightened, but before he could step away, she grabbed his hand.
“Do not leave me. Please.”
Heart twisting in his chest, he sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress and took her cold hand in his. “I’ll not abandon you.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice raspy and strained. “You may leave as soon as Sister Mary Daphne returns with the midwife.”
Jack squeezed her hand and nodded. The contractions seemed to have stopped, and with a sigh, the exhausted woman closed her eyes.
****
Abby heard voices, but they seemed to come from the bottom of a barrel. She opened her eyes and looked up at the tall, blond captain. Was he a captain in the military? A ship’s captain? No one had introduced him, but she had overheard his friend call him captain. Yet, the vicar called him Lord Ardmore.
Was he an American captain or an English nobleman?
Her eyes drifted shut. The searing pains had stopped, but when she tried focusing her thoughts, words jumbled in her head, leaving her exhausted and confused. She remembered the coach jostling her as it bumped along the rutted road. Her back had throbbed and pain twisted her belly. Then she had felt a gush of warmth between her legs. When she looked down, there had been blood between her feet. She screamed, and the coach jerked and nearly overturned. Then…
She could not remember. Had the nun given her something to ease the pain?
“Where is Sister Mary Daphne?” she whispered, too weary to raise her heavy lids.
A large, warm palm covered her hand. “She has gone after the vicar’s niece, the midwife.”
Abby forced open her eyes. The handsome captain bent over her. Sun bleached strands of blond hair escaped the queue at his nape and brushed his wide shoulders. He seemed as immovable as a mountain and quite formidable with his intense brown eyes, square jaw, and brooding features. Yet, there was a gentleness to his touch that made her think he would protect a woman rather than abuse her.
She closed her eyes again. It felt as if only moments had passed before someone was touching her forehead and talking softly.
“I am Mrs. Sheila Beckman. The midwife. Trust in me and the Lord, and everything will be fine.”
Abby opened her eyes. The captain was gone, and a heavy-set woman with brown hair now leaned over her bed. Sister Mary Daphne stood on the other side of the room, a pinched expression on her face.
“The vicar’s niece will take good care of you, and so will I.” Her smile reached neither her eyes nor her words. Fear chilled Abby’s hands. Did the nun not expect her to survive?
The midwife moved to the foot of the bed and raised her robe. Humiliation burned Abby’s cheeks. She wanted to clamp her knees together in protest, but Mrs. Beckman gently pried them apart.
“Well?” Sister Mary Daphne asked, impatience tingeing her words.
Mrs. Beckman peered over Abby’s knees. “I do not wish to offend your modesty or induce indelicate sensations, but I must insert my hand into the womb to feel for the babe.”
Abby’s stomach lurched. Ears burning with shame, she turned her head to stare at the flickering wick on the bedside lamp. “Do what you must.”
Grinding her teeth, she endured the humiliation and discomfort of
the midwife’s examination. It was over quickly, but rather than feeling relief, fear washed over her like a drowning tide. The contractions had stopped, but her baby no longer moved.
Silence filled the room as the midwife stood and wiped her blood stained hands on a towel. She met Abby’s gaze and sorrow shadowed her face. Then without a word, she hurried from the room.
Biting back tears, Abby rubbed her protruding belly and prayed.
Chapter Four
“How is she?” Jack asked. The expression on the midwife’s face sent a chill down his spine. Damn it all to hell. He had seen enough death over the last four years to last him a lifetime.
When he returned to England, he had hoped to escape it, at least for a while. But it seemed as if the Angel of Death followed him. Would the widow and her unborn child be the Grim Reaper’s next victims?
The midwife clucked her tongue. “It is not good. The placenta partially blocks the birth opening, but if I try to move it aside, the mother could bleed to death, and both her and her child will perish.”
“What are you going to do? You cannot stand by and watch her die.” Jack wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides.
The vicar placed a hand on his shoulder. He stiffened, but the man’s words were calm and damn reasonable. “We can pray. And trust that my niece knows what she is about.”
Mrs. Beckman nodded. “There is nothing more powerful than prayer. And I have mixed some herbal teas that should help. Nettle for her blood, raspberry for her uterus, and comfrey for her placenta. The contractions have stopped, and the placenta could still shift enough for both mother and child to survive the delivery.”
“But you must save the child!” The nun stepped forward and gripped Mrs. Beckman’s arm as she was turning to go back inside the bedroom. “Can you not cut the child from the mother’s womb?”
Jack’s heart leapt into his throat. He glanced at Quentin, who looked just as unnerved as he felt. How could a woman of God show such callous disregard for the welfare of another human being, especially a defenseless woman in such a vulnerable state?
The midwife looked no less dismayed by the nun’s question. Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “I am a midwife, not a butcher.”
“But the child—”
“Will either live or not as the Lord sees fit,” the vicar interrupted with a stern edge to his words. “It is in His hands now, and we must have faith that all will come about according to His plan.”
The nun’s dark eyes glinted. “But if we cannot save them both, we must attempt to save the child. The babe is innocent of the sin in which it was conceived.”
Jack looked past the nun to the closed door separating them from the object of their discussion. Was the widow in fact, unwed? Or did the nun consider it a sin for a husband to know his wife in the biblical sense? Either way, he hoped to God Abby had not overheard the woman’s cold and ruthless suggestion.
“Conception of a child is not a sin unless the mother is unwed,” the vicar replied in a reproving tone.
The nun meekly lowered her gaze but not before something, dark and unforgiving flashed behind her eyes. “I am sorry for telling an untruth, Reverend Harrison. I was merely trying to protect my charge’s reputation.”
Quentin gave her a considering look. “Then she is unwed?”
The sister nodded, and a calculating gleam lit Quentin’s eyes. It was that same glint he got when formulating a plan to acquire the un-acquirable.
“How long before she delivers?” Quentin asked the midwife in a voice now laced with excitement. Jack tensed and inwardly groaned. His quartermaster had a plan, and Jack knew in his gut he was not going to like it.
“It could be days yet or merely hours. There is no telling in these situations,” she said with an uneasy smile. “You will pray for her?” she asked her uncle.
He nodded. “Of course.”
“Then if you will excuse me, I must get back to my patient.” The midwife turned and headed back inside the bedroom.
When she shut the door, Quentin turned back to Jack. Hope and just a hint of mischief shone in his eyes. “You could marry her and solve all your problems. She is unwed and not a widow. And there is a fifty-fifty chance she will have a boy.”
“And an equal chance she will have a girl.” Had Quentin lost his mind? He looked sane, but he had obviously been at sea too long. Or perhaps, the three months they had spent in Sheep’s Crossing waiting on Jack’s pedigree had taken its toll. “This is madness, Quent.”
He couldn’t possibly marry a woman he did not know—a woman about to give birth to another man’s child. Could he? He looked to the vicar. “It would never work. Would it?”
The vicar sighed as if hesitant to answer. “If she is indeed unwed and not a widow…”
Jack’s heart thumped, but he quickly tapped down what little hope blossomed in his chest and met Quentin’s gaze. “It is unreasonable to even consider such a possibility.”
“Why? All you have ever talked about is Ridge Point and how you wished to reclaim your mother’s birthright when your father died. Well, the old man is dead, and unless you can marry and produce a legitimate heir in five months’ time, you are going to lose it all.”
“The child she carries is not mine, and I will not lie and say that it is.”
“This is not America,” Quentin said.
Jack snorted. “Truly? You astound me with your perceptions.”
Ignoring Jack’s sarcasm, Quentin continued. “You do not have to claim the child. You just have to marry the mother. Once wed, the child will be legally yours regardless of who sired it or when. All that matters is that she is lawfully wed to you before the child is born.”
Jack looked from Quentin to the vicar. Reverend Harrison nodded. “If she has a son, you would inherit everything.”
Still, Jack resisted. He had been his father’s son and legal heir. Yet, it had made no difference. How much worse would it be for a child who did not carry his or her father’s blood? And there was no guarantee Abby would deliver the son he needed to inherit. “The lady is pregnant and unwed. I will not compound her problems by coercing her into a loveless marriage with a stranger in need of an heir.”
“Why not?” Quentin challenged. “She does not seem to have a family or anyone to take care of her.” To bolster his case, he turned to the vicar. “It must be fate that brought them together. Do you not agree? Lord Ardmore needs an heir, and the lady needs a husband.”
“And what of the child?” Reverend Harrison asked.
“He will inherit a viscountcy.”
Jack’s pulse drummed in his ears. It could not be as simple as Quentin implied, but his words were as seductive as a siren’s song. “Even if she were willing to wed me, there is no time to petition the archbishop of Canterbury at a whacking sum of twenty-eight guineas for a special license. And there is no time to post the banns if our petition is denied. Quite simply, it is too late for me and too late for her. The babe will be born out of wedlock, and I will lose Ridge Point.”
The thought of her giving birth to a bastard depressed him almost as much as losing Ridge Point to his cousin.
He hardened his heart, ignoring the impulse to ride to her rescue like some medieval knight in shining armor. For all he knew, she was a light skirt with no notion of who the father of her child might be.
The vicar gave him a considering look. “There are other ways to marry.”
“It has been years since you lived in England,” Quentin added. “Only the poorest classes marry by banns anymore. And only those with new money aspiring to live in good society waste it on a special license. Nowadays, those wishing to marry quickly, obtain an ordinary license.”
Could it really be that simple? Could he marry a stranger just to get his hands on his mother’s estate?
The cleric frowned. “Before a license can be granted, you or the bride-to-be must have resided within the diocese of the bishop in whose name su
ch license is granted for no less than fifteen days.”
“I have been here for three months.” Three long, boring months spent in a boarding house as badly in need of repair as Ram’s Head, while awaiting his summons to Parliament, only to learn of his father’s ridiculous codicil when the solicitor finally read the will.
The vicar smiled. “For a few pounds, the bishop can grant an ordinary license that will allow me to marry you here in the parish church. You will need to give notice of the intended marriage in writing, but only one of you needs sign. Filing the license in the Marriage Notice Book will cost another shilling.”
“You are currently a resident within the diocese,” Quentin added. “And the bishop resides less than a day’s ride from here. If I ride all night, I could be back before noon tomorrow.”
Jack’s head spun. Why would he even consider marriage to a pregnant woman he did not know?
Because he needed to bury his mother. And he needed to bury her at Ridge Point. “Wouldn’t I need to petition the bishop myself?”
The vicar shook his head. “Neither you nor your bride need be present to apply for a license, nor is it necessary to show proof of identity. You could stay here and become acquainted with your intended while Mr. Stanley applies for the license. Any reputable man known by the registrar or by the parties intending marriage can appear before him. Mr. Quentin’s application and his word will be proof enough. If Miss Abigail is under twenty-one, she will need a letter of consent from her guardian.” He looked at the nun, brows raised in question.
She looked at Quentin, malice shining in her dark gaze. Or perhaps, it was merely concern for her young charge. “She is three and twenty.”
“Then there is no hindrance to this union.” The vicar smiled. “Mr. Stanley will apply for the license, and the marriage certificate will be drawn up upon your request by making a handwritten copy and certifying it. You need only wait one day before you can marry.”